


two strangers in the bright lights

by canonlytrans



Series: so let's start carving our own path [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: 1960s-1990s, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Recreational Drug Use, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-07 14:51:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18412886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canonlytrans/pseuds/canonlytrans
Summary: Your name is David Knight and you are eleven years old when you meet your soulmate.





	two strangers in the bright lights

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Mix.
> 
> It's technically a prequel to the slscoop (wow that's a horrible name) 'verse, BUT can be read separately.

Your name is David Knight and you are eleven years old when you meet your soulmate. You’re in a park, the sun is shining, and it’s perfect, a good day, fluffy white clouds in the sky and a very light cool breeze.

It’s summer, 1972.

Your foster parents sit off to the side at a picnic table with their kids. The ones that’ve had their adoptions finalized. Maple, your foster mom, is waving you over, but you’re on the swings, and there’s some kid who wants on, and you aren’t giving up your swing when you know you won’t get it back if you go over to get lunch.

There’s this one guy there. He looks like he’s an adult. You’re old enough to tell he’s probably barely out of his teens, maybe a little older, but he’s got the startings of a mustache, and you don’t really like that. So you get up to go tell him so, because your previous foster dad had a mustache and it was really ugly and you didn’t like him, especially when he got angry.

“Hey,” you say, and he looks down at you, concerned. “Your mustache is stupid.”

“Where’s your parents?” he says. He has a weird sounding voice. Like he’s got an accent. Like he doesn’t belong in Texas. “Go find your parents.”

“Go find a better face,” you say. “Seriously, that’s a stupid mustache.”

You’re eleven, and have no concept of being rude.

The guy crosses his arms and ignores you, and that’s when you see it, on his hand. It’s sort of weird - one of those film reel things you’ve read about in class wrapped around a red rose, the petals falling off and turning black. At first, you think it’s a tattoo (sure, you know about soulmarks, but you’ve seen very few), but that’s for the tiniest second, before it hits you what it is. Because it’s familiar to you.

Because it is you.

A representation of you.

You look up at this guy’s face, at his glasses and his blue eyes, and you blink, but he just ignores you. You take off running, because obviously you have to tell your foster parents, and you’re barely able to talk when you get to the picnic table and go, “I met my soulmate, he’s that guy over there,” and you go to point and…

He’s gone.

* * *

Autumn, 1980.

You’re in your second year at college. Your roommate is named Rosita Vidente. She’s a fiery Hispanic woman who ignores most of the shit you say and writes her book most of the time, scrawling it out on a notebook. The thing is, you know the second you meet her that she’s your sister, especially once you see the watercolor soulmark on her left shoulder, the one that’s a rose and film reel. You’d know, because you have one on your right shoulder, a wizard hat sitting atop a book, with two pens crossed over it.

You know absolutely nothing about your biological parents, but you tell her, “I think you’re my sister,” and she looks at you and frowns and goes, “No shit, David.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. It’s pretty obvious. You look like me but with short hair. The bleach is a nice touch. I didn’t realize people really did that.”

It’s true - you bleached your hair once, when you were high with this girl named Jenna or Jen or Janine or something. It was in high school. “You’re also my platonic soulmate.”

“ _No shit_.” She finishes applying her dark red lipstick and smiles at you. Like, an actual smile. Her hair’s all big and curly, but you’ve seen the pictures and you know it’s usually much shorter, but hey, it’s the 80s, why not wear the suspenders and fedoras? You know you do. It’s what’s fashionable. “Are you coming to this party with me or not?”

“Yeah,” you say, and ruffle your fingers through your hair. No way you’re passing up some coke… or some soda. But you know if you say that, Rosita will stop your sorry ass from ever touching the shit. But she’s not dumb, she gives you an eyeliner-filled glare and you frown apologetically, grabbing your sunglasses (it looks cool, makes YOU look cool, you in your half-Mexican half-whatever glory.) “Don’t worry, I’m just gonna drink some vodka or smoke with the guys or somethin’, don’t think shit.”

You end up breaking that ‘don’t worry’ about forty five minutes later, making lines on the mirror with some hot guy who you’ll end up frotting against in the bathroom, three drinks and a few hits later.

Rosita drags you back to the dorms and you almost kiss her because for a split second she looks like one of your ex flings and she glares at you, those violet eyes looking right into yours (where the fuck did your shades go?) and she whispers, “You’re done doing this.”

“But Rosie -”

“And don’t fucking call me that.”

* * *

Spring, 1981. It’s a good year, mostly, couple massacres on the news. You quit doing the harder core shit, stick to getting high and drinking occasionally, working on getting a degree in filming. It’s a newer thing, you’ll be one of the first to get a degree in it, but you’re working on a screenplay in the meantime. It’ll be the next big hit, you’re sure of it. You got a name and everything - Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff. About two guys who are constantly high and get into a lot of trouble.

You’re halfway through April when your life changes completely.

Mostly for the worst. Definitely a little for the better.

Your adoptive mom, Maple, dies, and you head home to Dallas, because the funeral and shit. Your adopted siblings are a mix of pissed and upset - car accident, drunk driver, and they’re pissing off about how drinking’s so bad and should be criminalized and you drink yourself into a stupor at the closest bar that night.

Well, you get to the bar to drink into a stupor.

You’re just kind of sitting at the bar, nursing a martini, when this guy sits down next to you. You see his hands first, because you’re staring at the dark wood, and one of his hands has a tattoo on it - except, no, it’s not a tattoo, and you’re hit with a sense of recognition at that. You kinda thought it was a dream, except now you’re looking up at this guy with dark brown hair, and he’s dressed up pretty nice. He’s got blue-rimmed glasses, rectangularly shaped, probably early thirties if you’re guessing by the few gray hairs he’s got near the front, close to salt and pepper but not quite. But he’s attractive, bordering right on straight up hot. Like you, he’s not entirely white, you can tell in the shape of his eyes and here and there. Probably mixed Chinese, but you don’t know.

“Hey,” you say, words slurring a little, ‘cause you’ve had four drinks and it’s only 7 pm.

He looks at you, and he frowns. “Sunglasses indoors?”

“Makes me look cool. Y’know how it is.” You take off your sunglasses because hey, this guy’s your soulmate even if he doesn’t realize it yet, so he might as well see your fucked up eyes - bright red, and it’s weird, sure.

His own eyes flicker with something, then his lip quirks up in a faint smile. “Have we met before?”

“Yeah,” you say, and gesture at his horrible mustache. “Guess you didn’t quit growin’ it, huh?”

“God,” he says. “Eleven years ago.” He pauses. “I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Crocker.”

“Yup. Nice to meet you again. Any relation to Betty?” You hold out a hand. “I’m David Knight. Certified drunkard or something. Also your soulmate.”

His eyes widen, and he looks down at his hand, at the soulmark, and then back up at you, and you pull up the sleeve of your button down (past the elbows like it’s usually at), and right at the mark on your arm - a pie, one of those microphones like some lounge singer’s got smashed right in the whipped cream or whatever that is, and music notes surrounding it and bringing the whole thing together. Those baby blues widen so large that you’re pretty sure you could see the Earth in ‘em. There’s a little green, a little lighter blue. You’re up in space and staring down at the Earth from the moon.

You could definitely fall in love with this guy, and you’ve never even believed in love.

You’re drunk enough when you press him against his hotel room wall, and he’s actually kissing you - a few inches shorter, but you’ve always had a weird thing for height differences, so it’s no big deal. Sure, he’s ten years older than you, but his breath is hot and smells a little like whiskey and it’s doing all sorts of things to your brain and body both.

So you kiss him back, even though you’re both drunk - well, he’s closer to tipsy - and grinding on each other because there’s no way this guy has lube or a condom (thank god for the amount of guy-guy soulmates there are that those exist) and while you most definitely want this guy riding you or something, please, for fuck’s sake, the chance of that happening’s pretty slim ‘cause you’re here for a funeral and definitely didn’t bring any yourself.

But you wind up in his bed with him pulling both out of his pockets anyways.

And it’s probably the best fuck of your life.

  


The funeral comes two days later, and you’re a little high (you might’ve shotgunned this thirty two year old man in the car ride there) but it’s not like you’ve done worse before - you got drunk at prom, gave the valedictorian speech while on ecstacy, and nobody ever found out. It was a pretty fucked up speech, though.

Jonathan - he goes by Johnny mainly - is two things: the son of THE Betty Crocker, the face of Crockercorp, AND he’s a comedian. And his act is great - the second night you’re together, he performs a little, admits he’s in town only for said act. He’s pretty famous and you just never saw him somehow, never realized he’s the same guy even though he’s been on the news before.

“You’re a bad influence,” he whispers, when you pull him into the bathroom at the funeral home to blow him, and he’s right. You most definitely are a bad influence, but this guy just signed up for the worst ride of his life.

Not that he seems to mind.

  


He takes you home to New York over summer break, and you’re checking out his apartment, a nice cozy kinda place, when there’s a “Daddy!” and the sound of tiny footsteps.

You almost have a heart attack, and you turn around to see Johnny kneeling down as this little kid runs at him, and he picks him up and spins him around. There’s a woman there, her dark hair in a braid, green eyes obscured partially by her oval glasses, and she’s smiling a little, arms crossed as she leans in the doorway.

Said heart attack is now an actual panic attack.

“Who’s the blond?” she asks. “And why’s he leaving without saying hi?”

“Jada,” he says, and turns over to you, apparently hearing the rest of what she said. “David, what the fuck?”

“You got a kid?” you say, eyes a little wide.

“Didn’t I mention him? This is James.” Johnny hoists the, what, three year old? Christ. He picks up this three year old and balances him on his hip. “James, Jada, this is David. David, James is my son, Jade’s my half sister. We have the same dad.”

“Jada English, scientist extraordinaire.” She’s very pretty, and definitely Asian, so you see where Johnny gets it from. Must be his dad, ‘cause Betty Crocker is definitely white. “So who’re you? I’ve never seen Jonathon bring home a guy.”

“David.”

“He _just_ said that.”

“I’m his -”

“He’s my soulmate,” says Johnny, and you glare at him, feeling your stomach drop. Or maybe it’s just that you’re hungover from going out celebrating with Rosita and her friends. Her friends are way nicer than yours. Then Johnny looks over at you apologetically. “Jada was watching my son while I was on tour. I thought I mentioned James to you.”

To be fair, you were way more preoccupied with the sex and drinking. “Uh, maybe.”

“He looks kinda young to be your soulmate,” Jada interjects.

“Ten years ain’t _that_ big a difference, my friend Carly’s is forty,” you say, and it’s not a lie, though Carly’s boyfriend is more of a sugar daddy than a soulmate, so you guess that sort of says something. Sure, he’s got her mark, but she doesn’t have one at all. A little hard to fake having a mark you don’t have.

“Are you drunk?” she asks, then looks over at James, concerned.

“No.” That’s the truth.

“You smell like… _did you fuck in the car_?”

“No?” _That_ one’s a lie. You’re a horny college student and apparently Johnny hasn’t gotten any for about four years… which, when you look at the kid he’s holding, makes sense. And also makes you want to throw up, because… well, you’re horrible with kids. And you don’t want any. You always thought your soulmate would, well, agree on that, that kids are a horrible idea and why the fuck would you have any together?

Guess you didn’t account for separately.

  


Summer break, aside from The Problem (that’s James), is pretty decent. There’s not as much sex - actually, Johnny gets you flowers, and takes you out to dinner, and introduces you to his friends, and gets you cleaned up and wearing nice clothes. You get your first suit tailored - _you’re_ a broke college student and _he’s_ a rich heir-apparent to a pretty big company. You try French bread… and French wine. He shows you his side of New York City, cooks you authentic Thai (you were a little off there), holds your hand.

You realize a few days in that he’s trying to _date_ you.

“Rosita, you gotta save me,” you whisper into the phone, pressing it as close to your face as possible while you ignore The Problem playing with his blocks on the floor. “He’s, like, tryin’ to court me or some shit, like I’m some virginal soulmate bride in the 1800s. This is 1980, Rosita, listen to me.”

“Maybe you should let him,” comes the staticed reply. “Maybe he’ll finally get your shit in gear. Also, guess what?”

“What? You finally got laid? Finally got that stick outta your ass?”

“Oh, brother dearest, don’t be so rude. No, I got a publishing contract for my novel.”

“That’s fucking wonderful. Come to New York and save my sorry ass.”

“No. I don’t think I will,” she says, and hangs up.

The last two days of said break are pretty decent, with Johnny continuing his attempts at wooing you and also not really sleeping with you or drinking or anything. He catches you smoking up in the bathroom and frowns, but doesn’t say anything.

Hell, it’s July before he pulls you aside.

“David, are you planning on ever taking this -” and he gestures between the two of you. “- seriously?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘seriously’? I’m takin’ this really seriously. I’m riding the seriousness train right down to Solemnville, population us.”

“Please don’t curse in this house. I don’t want James growing up with that. Feel free to outside of here, but not around James,” Johnny says, and he takes off his glasses to clean them on the edge of his shirt, like he’s trying to busy his hands. “And please don’t smoke in the house. Not weed _or_ your cigarettes - if you need to smoke, use the balcony, but no marijuana. You’re an adult, David, so am I, let’s act like it.”

“You weren’t actin’ like one when we smoked up before my mom’s funeral.”

“No. I was an idiot.” He sighs. “I was trying to be a part of your world before I brought you into mine, I thought that would make the transition easier.”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Four months now.”

“Do you know anythin’ about me?”

“I know you have a drinking problem,” he says, and you almost do a spit take. “I know you have a twin sister, Rosita, who you were separated from at birth. I know you don’t take anything seriously. I know you’re a film major.”

“Yeah. What else?”

“I know your last foster parents, before the Knights, weren’t very nice. And I know that you resent your adoptive siblings for being there before you -”

You slap him.

He stumbles back, rubbing at the side of his face, and looks at you, obviously swallowing. “You hit me,” he says, and his eyes aren’t even wide, and you…

You realize he’s not even phased.

“Johnny, I didn’t -”

“Yes, you did. Don’t excuse it. I forgive you, bringing up your adoptive family was a rude move. I’m an adult and should’ve known better - hell,” he says, and winces at the cuss word, “I’m the older between us, I should’ve…”

“They’re not adoptive, they are my family. I don’t resent ‘em.” You grit your teeth. “And stop bringin’ up the age card, for fuck’s sake, ‘cause I’m not…” Does it _really_ matter how much younger than him you are? It’s ten years, it could be a _lot_ bigger a difference. “I’m sorry. For slapping you. I…”

“I know. Have I told you much about my mother?”

“No.”

So he does.

He tells you all about Betty Crocker.

He tells you about how she’d hit him, but most of it went to Jada since she was Betty’s step daughter and didn’t matter as much. He tells you about how she’d lock him in his room without food, or take away his piano when he tried to fight back. He tells you all sorts of horrible things, each one worse and worse, and you think you finally understand.

And afterwards, he almost tears up, you can tell, but he doesn’t, because his mother told him never to cry, that people who are the face of a company don’t cry. So instead, you hold him, and apologize over and over again.

And it takes a few minutes for you to realize that you might be in love, and you also might be too immature for him, and maybe…

Well, maybe you should wait to try again until you’re both on the same page.

* * *

October, 1987. The air is cool, and you’re directing your first film - not the one you wrote in college, actually it’s your sister’s book. Complacency of the Learned. It’ll be out in ‘88, and the script’s amazing, written by said sister. As far as special effects go, it’s better than Star Wars - same team, better equipment. The actors are great - some names you’ve heard before, some that are fresh picked and upcoming.

You didn’t know it, but while you were with Johnny the first go around, your sister got pregnant. Her daughter Trixie’s six now, and she’s the tiniest little gremlin, and calls you “Uncle David” and begs for books on magic. She loves wizards, wears a little wizard hat, and you’re pretty sure her soulmate will have that on their soulmark. A purple wizard hat. You don’t know what else, but she sure does love apple juice as much as you do.

You’re filming in New York when you make the call.

Johnny’s hair is salt and peppered, he’s thirty eight to your twenty eight, but he still looks amazing. It’s been six years, and he brings flowers to the coffee shop you meet up at, and you look at him and you don’t really see much of a difference.

“Hi,” you say.

“It’s been a while,” he says.

“We just keep havin’ bad timing,” you say. “First when I was eleven, then twenty two, now twenty eight. You think third time’s the charm?”

“I do.”

* * *

January, 1989.

Rosita fixes your tie for the third time in a row. There’s a little gray in your left undyed hair, so it sort of matches Johnny’s now, but the rest of you in the mirror looks great. You finger gun yourself and Rosita groans, and Jada laughs.

(Jada and Rosita hold hands behind your back. They don’t think you notice but you and Johnny both make bets on how long before they come out about their relationship.)

But right now that doesn’t matter.

Jada’s husband, Jacob (he’s her soulmate, but doesn’t mind the open relationships), and their kids, Joey and Jude, pop the dressing room door open. “Ten minutes,” Joey says, and she’s got this high little voice - she’s James’ age, and his best friend at the moment.

“So,” says Rosita. “Are you ready to get married?”

“No,” you say.

The door pops back open, and Trixie rushes in, her eyes wide. “Mom, mom, mommy,” she’s whispering, and Rosita gets to her knees, and she goes, “there’s this boy here and his name’s James and he’s my _soulmate_.”

And you laugh, look over at Rosita, and say, “Yeah. Okay. I’m ready.”


End file.
